


The Survivors

by PericulaLudus



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Attempted Murder, Awesome Bofur, Bofur is a Sweetheart, Dwalin & Thorin Oakenshield Friendship, Dwalin Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Injury, Loss, POV Dwalin, Poor Dwalin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-26 20:32:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5019400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year has passed since the Battle of the Five Armies and the Dwarves of Erebor have settled into a new routine. Under Dáin's leadership, the mountain is thriving, as is the city of Dale where Bard now rules. It's a new normality, but one that Dwalin struggles to come to terms with. Everyone has found their place, but there does not seem to be space for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drink

He does not want Balin to worry, but he cannot tell him either. He is going to hold him back; he is going to insist on talking. Talking does not help. Maybe this will.

Bofur opens the door and greets him joyously.

“I’m going to Dale, won’t be back tonight,” Dwalin says without preamble.

“Has something happened?” Bofur asks, a slight frown on his face.

“Naw,” Dwalin says impatiently, turning away from him. He wants to leave before his resolve leaves him. “Just going to the tavern.”

“Alright, let me grab my coat,” Bofur replies, waggling his eyebrows. “I quite fancy a pint or two myself.”

“I’m going alone,” Dwalin growls and regrets his tone immediately as he watches his friend’s face fall. “I just need to...” He stops, then raises his fist as he tips his head back slightly.

“Ah, fair enough,” the former miner replies reasonably, nodding his head in understanding. “You need to get shit-faced.”

“If Balin... just...” Dwalin cannot find the words and curses himself. He is no dwarfling who needs to make excuses to his older brother.

“Don’t you worry, mate, I’ll take care of things here. You go and do what you’ve got to do,” Bofur says earnestly. He is trustworthy.

The guards let him pass without question. He is well known among the inhabitants of Erebor. He has not taken a coat, but the cold night air feels good after the perpetual warmth of the mountain. He is well known in Dale as well. The tavern is comparatively empty, but a few drinkers look up at him and there is recognition on their faces. A few start to whisper. The one who came back from Ravenhill, the one who can snap your neck between two fingers; they say he has gone soft in the head now. He does not need to listen. He knows he frightens the younger bar maids, so he picks the oldest tavern wench and slaps gold coins on the counter in front of her.

“I’m going to sit there,” he growls, pointing at a table in a dark corner. “Nobody is to disturb me. See to it that I have a tankard of ale at all times. These coins are yours.”

She nods and there is no fear in her eyes, just a silent challenge as she seizes him up, trying to decipher his motives.

“I’m not out to cause trouble,” he declares, showing his empty hands, bare except for his tattoos. “Just get me an ale.”

“Certainly,” she says and fills a tankard from the largest barrel. Cheap ale, he knows, but that does not matter.

After the third tankard, she has learned not to talk to him. Dwalin drinks deeply, but methodologically. There is no rush. He is no unforged stripling any more and he knows the value of a slow, steady pace. After every fourth ale, he gets up to relieve himself in the back courtyard. When he gets back to his table, there is a full jug waiting for him. He drains it sip by carefully paced sip. He loses count after the first dozen drinks.

Thorin would be snoring under the table by now; he always has been a lightweight. Not so light to carry home though. Dwalin remembers many nights of trying to get his king into bed when he had had a few too many. After Dís had smacked him around the head a few times for waking up the lads, he had simply taken Thorin to his own house. Balin merely shrugged and rolled his eyes when he found Dwalin asleep in an armchair once more, knowing full well who occupied his bed. Only the best for their king.

The drink is clouding his vision by now, but not his thoughts. As he rises from his seat once more, he has to grab the table for support. He watches his slow and clumsy movements like a curious onlooker, detached from his body. He is certainly not in prime fighting form now, but it matters not. His thoughts remain dark, turning in the same old circles, never stumbling, albeit moving a little slower than usual. Fíli, Kíli, Thorin, the ones he should have guarded, the ones he has lost, the ones he has not been able to save. _What’s the point of you now, old guard?_ The cruel voice mocks. _Three kings and three princes dead on your watch while you go on living._ _Are you going to get Dáin killed next? Or are you just going to lose him the way you lost Thráin?_ He attempts to shush the voice, to chase it away with his hands, but it does not leave, so he decides to drown it in the fresh tankard of ale the wench hands him. He empties the man-sized jug in one huge gulp, all restraint forgotten. They used to cheer him on for that feat, in those rare carefree days when he was at an inn that felt safe enough to allow him to drink as he would.

The voice does not drown.

Time does not stop for him, it never does, and as he looks up after draining yet another mug, he realises that the tavern has emptied, the few oil lamps burning low. It’s just him and the wench now. She is washing dishes. Brave woman, to stay here with him, all alone in the middle of the night. He has been a guard for long enough to know that women are seldom safe, certainly not in the settlements of Men. He waves his tankard at her and receives another, full one immediately. He contemplates the dark liquid. He should probably stop, he knows he is beyond drunk by now, but then again that is the entire point of this quest.

A quest for forgetfulness.

Forgetfulness that does not come as he recalls Thorin’s outrage upon seeing how little regard Men have for their women. A drunken Thorin who more than once started a tavern brawl over such matters, leaving them with bloody noses and no shelter for the night more often than Dwalin cares to admit. After a few years of traveling together, they had agreed that Thorin would make sure the woman in question was safe, while Dwalin sorted out the perpetrator out on the streets. They’d work together seamlessly, a smooth system, too smooth for many a man who would never father a son now.

He drains cup after cup, never faltering, never slowing his pace. He gives up his quest for forgetfulness in the early hours of the morning. Now he just drinks to complete his mission. He is a warrior, he fulfils his duty, and he does not turn back when there is work to be done. Even if the work involves nothing but drinking.

This far north, the light penetrates the darkness late and slowly, but eventually the town awakens. The woman has retreated to a bench near the fire some hours ago, but still delivers him fresh ale whenever he signals for it. She looks tired, her face pale, but his gold has paid for her exhaustion many times over. A man bursts into the pub with a crate full of eggs, a ray of light and a cheery greeting. She silences him quickly and he stares in alarm at the glowering dwarf in the corner. Dwalin snarls at him and watches him flinch, almost dropping his precious cargo. He’s still got it, then, he still looks menacing enough to make a simple-minded farmer piss his pants. Now there’s a relief.

He should go. The city has awoken around him if the level of noise is anything to go by. He probably should have left before now, should have left before all of Dale saw him, but it did not feel right to cut his mission short. It will be a long walk back to Erebor today, but he does not see any shame in it. He empties his aching bladder in the courtyard once more. The early sunlight feels like daggers straight to his brain, but unfortunately there is no hope that it is just going to kill him. Dwalin gulps down deep breaths of the crisp cold air, willing it to clear his mind and steady his gait just enough to allow him to not make too much of a spectacle of himself. It does him hardly any good and he knows he is weaving as he marches in the back door, out of the front door and straight onto the street. The noise alone is torture, a horse cart clattering by, a woman screeching, and dogs fighting over discarded scraps of food. Dwalin groans.

He decides against the noisy main road and opts for a lesser-used footpath instead. It meanders across the battlefield, indistinct in places, often covered with ice. It won’t make him any more unsteady than he already is. Dwarves are of the earth; they certainly know how to keep their footing on it. He has walked back from Dale many times over the past year, but every time he covers the short distance, he is reminded of the battle and its aftermath. He had walked back to Erebor twice that day, each time with a heavy burden and a heavier heart. Bright sunshine and blue skies just to mock him and his grief as he made his way through fields strewn with corpses, Dwarves, Men, Elves and Orcs. The first time he had been with all those who remained alive of their company and in his arms had been his king; the second time around, he had been on his own as they all stayed in the mountain to fuss over Thorin and their own injuries, but all those who saw him stopped and lowered their heads when they laid eyes upon the blond prince he carried.

There looms Ravenhill, a cruel reminder of his failure every time he steps foot outside the mountain, as if he needs a tangible embodiment of his guilt. It is still too fresh, too raw, and part of him already recognises that this particular wound will never heal, not until he is finally allowed to pass into the Halls of Mandos. Oh how he wishes for that moment!

Then, suddenly, a dagger to his throat. Sharp blade, pressure applied just shy of strong enough to break the skin. Dwalin growls and jerks backwards, intent on unbalancing his attacker, but a second blade pricks the skin right above his kidney, piercing his clothes, demonstrating just how sharp and potentially deadly that little point is. He stills for a moment, lets his assailant relax. It’s a dwarf judging by the angle of the blades. He has no reason to suspect any dwarf in Erebor of wanting to kill him and would very much like to capture this bastard alive. Not that he is going to be overly bothered if he kills the fool. Dwalin twists and lashes out with his fists. He spins, throwing out his hands and elbows, but he is too slow, too clumsy and the assassin dances out of his way nimbly, always staying directly behind him, not giving him a target, not even giving him a glimpse of his identity. The motion makes Dwalin nauseous. He stops, breathing hard and desperately trying to focus his thoughts, willing his body into obeying his commands. A fruitless effort. His knees buckle and he staggers forward, directly into the curved blade. His skin offers no resistance to the razor-sharp edge and he feels a fine line of warm blood stretch across his throat.

Dwalin is curiously disinterested in his own end. _Thorin, here I come, at least you did not have to wait for too long_ , he thinks and lets his body fall to his knees, knowing full well the effects that dagger is going to have on his throat. He has seen it before. He has done it before. It seems only fair that he is on the receiving end this time. So be it, Halls of Mandos it is then. At least it will be quick.

“Oi, watch it, ye cave troll!”

Not the final words he would have chosen. But that voice... that voice... it does not matter. Darkness takes him.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Ink

“I know you’re awake.”

Nori. The voice... that’s Nori’s voice. Dwalin’s eyes snap open at the realisation, all pretence of being unconscious until he had quietly familiarised himself with his surroundings forgotten. He is in Erebor, in a Dwarven-sized room, on a bed hewn straight from the rock. The room is utilitarian, a wooden chest in one corner, some weapons leaning against the wall, a cape and a traveling pack on hooks, a desk in the other corner, on it a simple lamp. Nori has his boots on the table, lounging in a chair that he has tipped back onto its hind legs. He stands up, carefully sets a book down onto the desk next to a few others, and then increases the flow of the gas. Dwalin flinches as the sudden brightness sends a dagger to his brain.

“You can read,” he says before he can stop himself.

Nori looks at him oddly. “Knowledge is the key to success.”

He strides over to Dwalin, who quickly justifies, “I didn’t think you...”

“There are many things you don’t know about me,” Nori says cryptically. He reaches for Dwalin’s neck. There are bandages there and there is pain as well, and suddenly Dwalin’s mind is putting the pieces together.

“You...” he starts, but Nori interrupts him. “Sorry about that, mate, misjudged the angle there. To be fair, didn’t think you’d drop like a lump of lead either.”

“You cut my throat,” Dwalin says, his fingers reaching for the bandages automatically. Nori swats them away.

“Only cut the skin. And stitched it right back up again. I could’ve been a master tailor; don’t think you’ll have any complaints about my needlework. There’s some mighty worse examples on you.” He nods towards Dwalin’s right forearm where a large knobbly scar marks the spot where he had sutured a wound himself, with his left hand, by the light of a campfire. Not his finest work to be sure.

Dwalin’s brain still struggles to catch up with the situation. He is tucked into bed in nothing but his undergarments. He had been in Dale... He had been on the path near Ravenhill when somebody attacked him... when Nori attacked him.

“How did I get here?” he asks out loud. “You can’t carry me.”

“No,” Nori answers and flashes his teeth. “I might not be the brains of the family but I’m certainly not the brawns. Don’t worry though, didn’t call in Dori for reinforcements. What does it matter? You’re here now.”

Wherever here is. Dwalin looks around. The room is fairly large and the workmanship is good. For all its sparseness, this place is in the finer quarters of Erebor. Nori’s house? Likely. They all have their own houses. The original ten Dwarves. Thirteen, he corrects himself automatically, there are thirteen, only three have tombs instead of houses. Nori seems satisfied with his patient. He goes back to the desk, never turning his back on Dwalin. Always vigilant, even now, even in his own house. Old habits die hard, Dwalin knows.

“What’d you do that for?” he asks, pointing at his bandaged throat.

“Told you it was an accident,” Nori answers brusquely. He is pouring water from a jug into a cup. Water splashes everywhere as his hands tremble and Dwalin remembers that Nori too was injured in the battle. An accident.

“But why the knives in the first place?”

Nori sets the jug down abruptly and snarls at him.

“Cause it’s time we had a bloody talk, you and me, that’s why.”

His words are harsh but he doesn’t sound unfriendly as he says them.

“But... knives...?”

“Had been following you since last night, you never noticed, thought I’d see how close I could get. Didn’t think you were that pished. You keep it together pretty well. How many pints between trips to the pisser? Two, three?”

“Four.”

That makes Nori whistle between his teeth. “Not just hung like a horse, you’ve got the bladder of one as well. No wonder you were out of it for so long. Water?”

Dwalin pushes himself upright and groans as his head throbs. His throat is indeed parched and water is more than welcome. Good thing he doesn’t get hangovers. Nori hands him the cup and Dwalin takes great gulps of cold water. There is a slight twinge in his throat, nothing more.

“Had to put you under for a bit while I patched you up, but to be fair the alcohol did most of the work for me. You lost a fair bit of blood as well, so I’d take it easy for a while.”

Nori never talks that much and Dwalin knows he is only doing it to make him forget his question. They have worked on opposite sides of the law for far too long to fall for each other’s tricks.

“So, why the knives?”

“I want to talk to you.”

“A tap on the shoulder might’ve done.”

“You would’ve brushed me off.”

“Wasn’t in a talking sort of mood. Not like you couldn’t find a better time...” Dwalin grumbles. Nori is unperturbed.

“Well, it worked, we’re talking now.”

Dwalin raises his eyebrows in exasperation. Nori is infuriating.

“Alright, alright,” Nori relents. “Ori says it’s a bad habit to try and kill people to get their attention. Wasn’t going to kill you, didn’t think you’d keel over on me for nicking your skin a bit, my mistake, said sorry, happy now?”

Dwalin is not one to hold a grudge. He has always left that to Thorin. Balin sometimes teases that he can’t think from noon to midday and that’s the reason he never stays angry for long. Or maybe it’s just easier to live that way.

“What’s so urgent you can’t even let a Dwarf sober up in peace?” he asks. It’s Nori after all and they are brothers in arms. Apart from anything else, this is quite possibly the nicest attempt that has ever been made on his life. No other would-be assassin ever patched him up afterwards.

Nori fidgets with his sleeves for a moment and Dwalin knows from experience that he is hiding blades in there. Nori never does feel safe. Flattering, in a way, that he still considers him a threat even tucked into bed like a dwarfling.

When Nori speaks, it is without preamble.

“You’re killing yourself.”

Dwalin frowns, not sure what it is that Nori is implying. “I’m very much alive unless you’re trying things again.”

“You don’t need Óin to tell you that that much drink hurts you.”

Dwalin actually chuckles. So now a former thief is worried about his alcohol intake. How times change!

“You read that in one of your books, did you?”

“Watched it kill many a Dwarf.”

Nori is not smiling and Dwalin composes himself as well. You and me both, he thinks. Exile and poverty, injury and battle, they all do strange things to a Dwarf.

“I’m fine,” he reassures Nori.

“You work harder than anyone else, down in the mines or shifting rocks to rebuild. You keep going until you drop from exhaustion, day after day, week after week. You don’t even have to work—hero of Erebor and all.”

Dwalin shrugs. “I like it.”

“You like staying awake for days at a time as well?”

“I’m a guard, it’s part of my job.”

“Is that part of your job as well?” Nori asks pointing towards a shining burn mark on the back of Dwalin’s hand.

“That was an accident,” he says and quickly covers the scar with the blanket.

“Because you worked without any protection.”

Dwalin has nothing to say to that.

“Point is,” Nori continues. “You’re deliberately hurting yourself and I’m done watching you do it.”

They stare at each other. Nori is many things, but he is certainly not subtle. He doesn’t flinch, and after several long moments Dwalin lowers his eyes. He is not fond of being on this side of an interrogation.

But when Nori speaks again, it’s a statement, not a question. “You want pain you can control so you can cover up the pain in your mind.”

Dwalin looks at him, hard and dark, but Nori holds his gaze. “My life wasn’t exactly laced with mithril either,” he says and scoffs.

Dwalin barely has time to catch the small scroll that’s being thrown at him, retrieved in an instant from somewhere deep within Nori’s many pockets.

“What’s that?” he asks as he unrolls it. It looks like some sort of calculation, something a merchant might do, apparently an inventory of cups and plates and such, rendered in the common tongue.

“Other side,” Nori says and Dwalin turns the paper over, carefully smoothing it to reveal a drawing of Erebor. A mighty fine drawing of Erebor. The mountain is rendered in graphite with great accuracy and skill, ravens flying from its slopes and the river flowing from its base.

“Where did you get that?”

“Drew it while I was waiting for you in Dale.”

“You were...” Dwalin starts, but then returns his attention to the paper in his hands. “Where did you get the paper?”

“Took it from a potter’s shop,” Nori replies, bristling visibly. “And before you ask, I left two gold coins for it. I’m not stealing.”

“You could have asked. It would have been an honour for any resident of Dale to help you — hero of Erebor and all.”

“And the honour would have helped the poor woman feed her four children, eh? She would have never accepted the money. Lost her husband in the battle, but she somehow credits us for her own survival.”

How Nori knows that much about the personal circumstances of a woman he stole, or rather bought for a very handsome sum, a piece of paper from, Dwalin will never understand.

“Why are you showing me this?” he asks trying to stick to things he has some hope of grasping.

“Thought you’d like it,” Nori says with a shrug.

Dwalin looks at it again. He is no artist, but he acknowledges the skill that has gone into this. The lines are clear, the style almost simplistic, but still so true to nature. He has even included the gate. The gate... it is more detailed than the rest, seems to consist of tiny runes... nay, not runes. Sigils.

“Thorin,” he breathes as his thumb brushes across the signs. Thorin’s are at the top, supported by those of his nephews. Fíli and Kíli, supporting their uncle in death as they did in life. Thorin at the helm flanked by his nephews. Dwalin’s throat closes uncomfortably as he remembers their final sortie. Thorin, then Fíli and Kíli, and behind them Dwalin and Nori. After decades of working against him and fervently opposing his inclusion in the company at first, it had taken that show of courage and devotion to convince him of the former thief’s honest intentions. Nori had fought at Thorin’s side proudly, but all too briefly.

“It’s beautiful,” he says softly. There is a small answering huff from Nori. It really is beautiful. To anyone it would be a striking representation of Erebor, but the true marvel lies in the detail that a casual glance does not reveal. More than just a mountain, it is a memorial to those who fell defending it.

“You want it?”

“It’s your work, keep it,” Dwalin says, pushing the drawing towards Nori. It is beautiful, but he already sees memorials everywhere.

“Didn’t mean the paper,” Nori clarifies. “I bought that after all. But I could draw it for you. I could ink you with it, if you want.”

He is fidgeting with his sleeves again like he expects to be punished for his suggestion.

Dwalin flexes his fingers. He is heavily inked. His skin has always been a canvas, his tattoos and piercings a way to frighten, but also a way to remember. Over the years, he has become rather well-known for his skill with the needle. Thorin sometimes teases him, saying that he has put more ink under skin than ink onto paper. Thorin with his one and only tattoo. A blank canvas.

“My tattoos are not beautiful,” he says, shaking his head. Geometric shapes. Nothing special. Just shapes and runes to give shape to his fears and his memories.

“This one could be,” Nori says, shrugs, and lets the paper disappear again. “And it would give you something more than pain.”

“Cover up the pain in my mind.”

“You have the memories anyways. Might as well give them something... beautiful.”

Dwalin looks at his arms for a while. Nori does not speak.

“I can’t,” Dwalin finally says and realises his voice sounds choked. He takes a deep breath. “I can’t look at that every day.”

The image is already carved onto his eyelids after just one glance. He knows he won’t be able to stand it. It’s beautiful. It’s a memorial to those he loved. He should be happy to see it.

Nori shakes his head. “No it’s not for that. It’s not something to have in front of your eyes. But it’s... it’s your past, it’s where you come from... it’s behind you, but it’s still a part of you.”

“A big part.”

“Well, your back is fairly big.”

Nori sits down at the desk again, unfolds the paper and flattens it against the stone. Dwalin gets up to look over his shoulder as Nori begins to speak and sketch.

“The scar between your lower ribs can be integrated into this cliff. The faded long ones—cat o’ nine tails?— they’d be like melting snow on the west slope...”

Dwalin is clutching the back of Nori’s chair as he watches him work. That tattoo could be a part of him, so uniquely tailored to his body, but behind him, something he carries wherever he goes, but doesn’t have to look at.

“Do it,” he interrupts Nori’s description. The smaller Dwarf looks up, blinking rapidly.

“I was just explaining...”

“Ink me.” Once Dwalin has come to a decision, he does not value debate.

“You might want to think about...”

“I’ve thought about it and I want you to ink me.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s hardly my first tattoo. Do it.”

“Not today.”

Dwalin narrows his eyes at him, a look that usually makes the mountains tremble and Dwarves spill their most intimate secrets. Nori doesn’t balk, but he does get up, keeping the chair between them.

“You are injured and you reek like you bathed in ale.”

“Let’s do it.”

“I never ink a drunk person,” Nori says, squaring up to him.

“Lofty morals for a thief,” Dwalin scoffs.

“Pretty reckless for a guard,” Nori counters.

* * *

 

They start a few days later. Dwalin is sober, even though he insists that he has had a tipple before every single one of his tattoos, including the ones he did himself. There’s no arguing with Nori; he is more meticulous than Óin. He has Dwalin lie down on his stomach and carefully washes his back with warm water. They agreed on a final design the night before; it is a large and elaborate tattoo, but it’s just the way Dwalin wants it. It is the image of a burden he knows he is going to carry for the rest of his life. It might as well be beautiful.

Nori washes his hands and flexes his fingers.

“Ready?”

“Aye. You?”

Nori sighs and shakes his wrist. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Will you be fine? Your... hand...”

Dwalin can see him bite his lip. “It’s a good day,” Nori answers. “But if you’d rather I didn’t...”

“I trust you,” Dwalin says and rests his forehead upon his hands. “Let’s do this.”

They talk very little after that. They meet for session after session whenever Nori has a good day. He invites Dwalin over when his hand is steady, and Dwalin never mentions the days that pass without an invitation. Nori works in silence, only occasionally asking Dwalin about the pain. Dwalin relishes the pain. He has never been concerned about getting hurt as long as there is a good reason for it. This is his last, private service to Thorin and the lads. He thinks about their funeral, about the battle, fighting side by side as they had done so many times before. He remembers Thorin’s confidence when he led them into battle, and he remembers his smile when he saw Erebor again. As Nori carefully inks line after line, Dwalin remembers the good times as well, their laughs and their successes. Every line is a memory, but not every memory is a burden. Some are darker than others, but every line is a part of the larger picture, and the picture is beautiful.

* * *

 

Nori is clinical and accurate as ever as he examines the healing process, but when he declares himself satisfied and unveils a large mirror with a flourish, there is a rare glimmer of pride written across his features.

“You are a master of your craft,” Dwalin says as he admires his reflection in the mirror. Not only is this by far his largest and most elaborate tattoo, but it is also the one that shows the greatest skill with the needle. The mountain seems to rise from his skin and the ravens and the river form meandering lines that reach out towards his front. His past reaching out to his future. A future he feels a little more ready to face now. He wants to thank Nori, to make him understand just how much this means to him, but Nori merely shakes his head.

“You know my trade and it is not an honourable one.”

“You are an artist. A proper son of Narvi,” Dwalin says, referring to the legendary craftsman who fashioned the mighty Doors of Durin that guard the West-gate of Khazad-dûm.

The pride in Nori’s face fades as quickly as it has appeared.

“I’m a son of Dora and absolutely nobody else,” he says, voice icy.

“You have a father,” Dwalin answers.

“Sure. Any Dwarf who had coin or food to spare on the road from Dunland could have sired me.”

A private pain speaks in his words and Dwalin does not delve deeper. Nori’s talent makes him a son of Narvi, all the more so for being a surface-born bastard without support or proper education. Narvi, the simple craftsman whose legacy lingers when kings and warriors are long forgotten, proof that a Dwarf should be judged by his deeds, not by his lineage.


End file.
